


got our aim, but we might miss

by katsumi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Coital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: Monty finally hooks up with Miller, only to wake up the next morning terrified that sleeping with Miller has ruined his long-term plan to...well, sleep with Miller. 
(Monty’s brain handles many things well under pressure. Boys is not one of them.)





	

Monty wakes to something warm against his neck.

 

He assumes, groggy in the morning light, that it’s Jasper. Because sometimes, when Jasper is super high and starved for human affection, he crawls into Monty’s bed and drools all over his pillows. Monty never complains, because at the end of the day hugs are nice, but he’s also counting down the days until Maya’s fellowship is over and Jasper is no longer consumed by his long-distance relationship.

 

Monty shifts, ready to to throw Jasper off him, when he notices that the arm slinked around his waist is, like, _double_ the size of Jasper’s. It’s also mostly muscle. So, unless Jasper has been going to the gym for months and has somehow kept it hidden—fat chance; Jasper would brag—the person in Monty’s bed is probably not his roommate.

 

Monty’s brain is still trying to piece everything together when said person sighs, shifting, and Monty feels the scrape of stubble against the back of his neck.

 

He stiffens. Because he remembers that feeling, the rough grate of stubble against his lips and his palms as he clawed Miller closer, closer.

 

_Miller_.

 

And now that he remembers it, that’s all he can see: the curl of Miller’s lips as he tugged Monty’s pants down, the dark look in his eyes as Monty pushed him back onto the bed. Miller, smirking down at him, before sinking his teeth hot and sharp into Monty’s neck.

 

Monty sneaks a look down, and sure enough, there are two red semi-circles bracketing his left collarbone. The arm bent around him is dark and firm, and he can just make out the start of one of Miller’s tattoos near the wrist.

 

_This is real_.

 

Monty’s first thought upon this revelation is: _thank god, finally._

 

This thought is immediately followed by: _holy shit holy shit holy SHIT WHAT DO I DO._

 

And then Miller shifts again, and his lips open wet and soft at the base of Monty’s neck, and Monty’s pretty sure he feels tongue against his skin, and his brain completely short-circuits.

 

“Umm!” Monty gasps, jerking in spite of himself. He thinks he might startle Miller awake, because the arm around him tightens— _oh my god, those muscles_ —and then he hears Miller’s voice, deep from sleep, right against his ear.

 

“Monty?”

 

Monty stiffens. He’s flatlining. Nathan Miller is a lot to handle _most_ days, let alone first thing in the morning, curled in Monty’s bed, chest flush against Monty’s back.

 

It’s just. It’s a _lot_.

 

“Monty?” Miller whispers again. He sounds groggy, and a little confused, and Monty’s heart leaps straight into his throat.

 

“Yep,” he manages. “It’s me.”

 

_Yep, this is real, you slept with me! Whoops! No takebacks! Oh my god oh my god ohMYGOD._

 

Miller hadn’t seemed _that_ drunk the night before. It had been Raven’s birthday party, so of course they were doing shots, because Raven loves throwing it in everyone’s faces that she’s better at alcohol than them. (Which she undeniably is. She drinks Bellamy under the table every chance she gets, and at her last birthday party, Wells got so drunk trying to keep up with her that he passed out spread eagle on top of a pool table. Monty has pictures.)

 

So, Miller certainly hadn’t been _sober_ , but he’d seemed generally fine. He’d been coherent enough to argue with Monty at the bar for what felt like hours about whether Clarke would sort into Gryffindor or Slytherin. He was the one who’d started shoving glasses of water at Monty towards the end of the night, the one who’d ordered the Uber to take Monty home.

 

_Fuck_ , Monty thinks, he was probably just trying to make sure Monty got home safe. Miller probably wasn’t expecting Monty to lose all semblance of self-control and jump him in the middle of the hallway, pressing him back into his apartment door until Miller finally had to push him back to fumble for the keys.

 

Monty’s said it before, and he’ll say it again: there’s a reason he never does shots. He should never be _allowed_ to do shots.

 

Because now Miller’s in his bed, and Monty’s pretty he knows exactly what he feels pressing against his ass—he’s pretty sure he knows what it _looks like_ —and Monty is completely, utterly unequipped to deal with having casually fucked the person he’s been in love with for the past year and a half. This is not something he does.

 

He had a long-term game plan for seducing Miller, which mostly consisted of spending as much time with him as possible, gazing at him across crowded rooms, and trying not to shiver every time Miller’s hand brushed against his (which was, like, decently often). He had been working up the courage to one day put Miller’s beanie on for him and let his hands linger against Miller’s skin, just to see what would happen. But even that had seemed like a lot.

 

Last night, he’d skipped ahead a few steps.

 

“Hey,” Miller says, jarring Monty back to reality. “You okay?”

 

“YEP,” Monty croaks. “I just, uh. Water? I need water. Do you need water?”

 

Miller’s silent for a painfully long beat. His arm loosens, and when he pulls back, Monty tries to fight the urge to roll back into his warmth.

 

“Yeah,” he says, slow. “Water would be great.”

 

Monty stops himself just short of saying what would be a truly mortifying _okie dokie_. Thank god for small miracles.

 

He rolls out of bed with an undignified hop and immediately crouches to retrieve his pants from the floor. He’s naked, which shouldn’t be surprising except that _everything about this is really, really surprising_. He stumbles out of the room without so much as a glance back at Miller, because Miller’s probably naked, too, and Monty. Just. Cannot.

 

Monty stands alone in his kitchen in yesterday’s jeans, trying to will his brain to do _something_ more useful than replaying the image of Miller biting his lip as Monty closed his mouth around— _STOP IT NOT HELPFUL_.

 

The thing about the seducing Miller plan is, it wasn’t built around fucking Miller. Like, obviously Monty’s wanted to fuck Miller—Monty has _eyes_ —but ultimately, Monty was hoping for more of a _let’s be boyfriends and live together and make out on the couch on Sunday afternoons and one day get married and have at least two, if not three, dogs_ kind of thing. He’s in this for the long haul.

 

And if he runs his fingers lightly down Miller’s cheeks, and Miller doesn’t fall in love with him, then fine. Whatever. He’ll work past it. But if he _has sex with Miller_ —drunkenly, casually, seemingly randomly—and Miller doesn’t fall in love with him, then Monty’s going to be a complete wreck and it’ll be _all his own damn fault_.

 

Of course, standing in his kitchen berating himself doesn’t change the immediate fact that he _did_ sleep with Miller, and that Miller is still here, in his apartment.

 

When Monty finally stumbles back to his room, water glass in hand, Miller’s standing shirtless by the side of the bed. Monty immediately looks away, driven purely by instinct; the few times he’s seen Miller shirtless at the pool, or after a run, or in the middle of some poorly thought out bet with Bellamy, Monty’s forced himself to look away so as not to be caught ogling.

 

“Here’s your water,” he says, thrusting the glass towards Miller. He feels Miller take the glass, and when he glances up, Miller’s giving him this soft, rare smile— _while shirtless!!!!!!!_ —and Monty just can’t catch a break.

 

“Clarke!” he yelps. Miller, who’s halfway through taking a sip of the water, looks up at him, confused. Monty swallows.

 

“Clarke,” he says again, at a more respectable pitch. “She called. She needs help with...her computer.”

 

It’s not a great lie. From the way Miller’s face hardens, it’s clear he thinks so, too.

 

“Yeah?” he asks. A pause, then, “So, you need to get going?”

 

Monty nods. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

 

All traces of that smile are gone from Miller’s face, now. Monty barely notices the tension in Miller’s shoulders or the way he bites his lip, eyebrows furrowed; Monty just needs room to breathe.

 

“I’ll get out of your hair, then,” Miller says, setting the water glass down and pulling his shirt on. He starts for the door, and Monty trails behind him, trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do in this situation. Acknowledge what happened? Don’t acknowledge it? Say screw it and shove Miller into the door again, because it worked so well last time?

 

“Thanks!” he blurts, stupidly, as Miller’s hand wraps around the doorknob.

 

Miller stops, almost like he’s waiting for something.

 

“For,” Monty continues, grasping at straws, “you know. For taking me home.”

 

Miller looks over his shoulder back at Monty, face utterly, _painfully_ neutral, and nods. Then he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

Monty decided long ago that Jasper—while still his very best friend in the world, because some things are sacred—is not the best person to go to for boy talk. First, because Jasper is the least subtle person on the planet, and would absolutely blow all of Monty’s romantic secrets without meaning to.

 

Second, because Jasper’s idea of having good game is performing these ridiculous romantic gestures, like printing a picture of him and Maya onto an enormous duvet cover and giving it to her for her birthday _before they were even dating_.

 

Third, because Jasper is his roommate. And ever since Clarke and Bellamy merged their friend groups and he met Miller, most of Monty’s flirting attempts have involved inviting Miller over to play video games and then constantly reaching over him to grab something from the other end of the couch. He can’t do this if Jasper knows he’s in love with Miller. He just can’t.

 

So, when he told Miller he needed to go to Clarke’s, he wasn’t lying. (Well, just about the computer thing.) He has to talk to Clarke, because Clarke’s the only one who knows.

 

The door’s unlocked when he gets to her apartment—which seems weird, but whatever—and he stumbles in with a frantic, “CLARKE! Something happened! I need you to tell me what to...”

 

But then he trails off at the sight of Clarke, perched on her kitchen counter with one Bellamy Blake standing between her open legs, sucking at her throat.

 

Monty’s first instinct probably should be to leave. His actual first instinct is to call Miller, because they’ve had multiple discussions about how long it would take for Clarke and Bellamy to get together and how weirdly invested they are in their relationship. But that just reminds him of the reason he’s here in the first place.

 

“Clarke!” he shouts. “I really need your help!”

 

Bellamy growls, his face still buried in Clarke’s neck. “Monty. We’re a little busy.”

 

“Yeah, I can see that, and hooray for you, long time coming and all that, congratulations, but you can keep doing this later. I need Clarke _now_.”

 

Clarke peeks around Bellamy’s head, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “What’s up, Monty?”

 

Monty glances at Bellamy, who’s sagging a little now against the counter.

 

“You want Bellamy to leave?” Clarke guesses.

 

Bellamy groans.

 

“Sorry!” Monty says. “Some problems are Bellamy problems, and some are Clarke-and-Bellamy problems, but this is just a Clarke problem. A super, super urgent Clarke problem.”

 

Clarke, bless her heart, just laughs. “Okay, got it. Up, Bellamy. You heard the man: it’s a Clarke problem.”

 

Bellamy, bless _his_ heart, pulls back, kissing Clarke on the cheek. He attempts to glare at Monty, but it quickly morphs into a dopey smile. This whole thing is super adorable, but Monty needs to focus.

 

“Can I ask what counts as a Bellamy problem?” Bellamy asks, moving for his coat.

 

“If I’m down a trivia player,” Monty says. “Or I need some tips on how to be terrible at Mario Party.”

 

“Love you too, man,” Bellamy laughs, patting Monty’s shoulder. “Clarke?”

 

“I’ll call you later,” she confirms, sliding off the counter.

 

Bellamy grins. “Okay. Bye, guys.”

 

“So,” Monty says, once Bellamy has shut the door. “ _That_ happened.”

 

Clarke also does a pretty bad job of trying to look annoyed; her smile is almost blinding. “Yeah, yeah.”

 

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked, by the way,” Monty adds. “Someone could break in. Like, you know, me.”

 

“Bellamy was going to leave,” Clarke says, shrugging. “We got distracted.”

 

“Oh my god, Clarke.”

 

She just rolls her eyes. “You about to text everyone and settle the pool?”

 

“How’d you know about our pool?”

 

“Apparently Octavia told Bellamy.”

 

“I _knew_ she wouldn’t be able to keep that a secret. And I really should text everyone, because I’m pretty sure I just won.”

 

“Yet, you’re not,” Clarke observes. “What’s up, Monty?”

 

“I slept with Miller,” Monty says. “Because I am a moron. And I thought I was past succumbing to my base instincts under the influences of alcohol, but it turns out I’m not, because Miller’s super hot, and this is a disaster.”

 

Clarke blinks. “That was a lot to process.”

 

Monty nods.

 

“Okay. I’m going to make some coffee,” Clarke says, all business. “You want some coffee?”

 

“God, yes.”

 

Clarke makes coffee, and Monty sits at her counter and buries his head in his hands. After some minutes pass, he hears her set two mugs on the table.

 

“You slept with Miller?” she asks, sitting in the chair beside him.

 

Monty lets out a long, warbling groan.

 

“Monty,” Clarke laughs, the same way he imagines she might speak to to a third grader. “You like Miller. You’ve liked Miller for ages. I’m failing to understand how this is a bad thing.”

 

“I _love_ Miller,” Monty says, quiet, the words muffled by his arms. “I…”

 

Clarke’s fingers brush through his hair, all tender affection, and his eyes _definitely_ do not tear up.

 

“This isn’t how it was supposed to happen,” he mumbles. “Me and him. I thought...well, I thought it would never happen, but if it _did_ , I wanted us both to actually want it.”

 

“What makes you think he didn’t?” Clarke asks. “Was he not into it?”

 

Monty flushes, thinking of his name in a moan on Miller’s lips, of Miller’s tongue tracing an agonizingly slow path down Monty’s stomach.

 

“No, he was,” he says. “He, er, definitely was.”

 

“Then…?”

 

“I jumped him after we’d both been drinking,” Monty moans. “He went with it. He was into sex when it was literally thrown at him. That doesn’t mean he wants _me_. Not the way I want him.”

 

Clarke shifts closer and lays her head on Monty’s shoulder. “You’re scared,” she says.

 

It’s not a question, but Monty nods anyway.

 

“I get that.” Clarke’s voice is soft and steady, and Monty really loves her a lot. “But Monty, you don’t know what Miller wants unless you ask him. Did you ask him?”

 

“No,” Monty sniffles. “I avoided eye contact, told him you were having computer problems, and fled.”

 

“Okay, well…”

 

“I could have handled that better.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I thought I was in deep before,” Monty says. “But this? I can’t get over this. I can’t do casual with him because I’m _not_ casual about him, like really, _really_ not. But if he doesn’t want to…”

 

“It’s going to hurt,” Clarke supplies.

 

“Yeah.”

 

_A lot_.

 

“I know,” Clarke says. “But you know you have to talk to him even so, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And Monty, I know you’re trying not to get your hopes up, but think about it. You kissed Miller yesterday, and he kissed you back. No matter what happens now, that’s pretty amazing, right?”

 

Monty thinks about the feeling of pressing his lips against Miller’s that first time, that moment’s hesitation before Miller’s arms encircled him, pulling him deeper into a bruising kiss.

 

“Yeah,” Monty agrees, soft. “That part was pretty amazing.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s a good friend, so she lets a whining Monty spend the rest of the morning curled up on her couch watching cartoons, even though she’d clearly rather be making out with Bellamy. Monty knows this because he asks her, and she doesn’t even deny it.

 

“You used to say you weren’t into Bellamy,” Monty accuses. “You used to say, and I quote, ‘Over my dead body.’ You were lying to me?”

 

“Yeah,” Clarke says, thoroughly unapologetic.

 

“Why?”

 

Clarke looks at him, eyebrows raised. “You really want to have a conversation with me right now about suppressing emotions and being afraid of good things? _Really?_ ”

 

Monty deflates. “No.”

 

At noon, Clarke kicks Monty out so she can go to the gym (which Monty suspects is code for _take a nap_ ). She kisses his cheek as she pushes him out the door and tells him in no uncertain terms that he’s to call Miller within the next hour.

 

“Don’t make it worse, Monty. Just rip the bandaid.”

 

So, as he’s walking to the subway from Clarke’s apartment, he does. He calls Miller. He almost texts instead, because he and Miller have an extensive text message history, but Monty can count the number of times they’ve spoken on the phone on one hand. Still, this feels like a situation that warrants a call.

 

He almost thinks the call is going to go to voicemail, when Miller picks up. “Hello?”

 

“Guess what?” Monty says, and damnit, his voice is doing that weird high-pitched thing again. “Bellamy and Clarke are together now.”

 

Miller is quiet for so long a beat, Monty wonders if he didn’t hear him. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “I know.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Bellamy’s my roommate,” Miller reminds him.

 

“And he’s bragging about it,” Monty assumes.

 

“Won’t shut up,” Miller says. He pauses. “That it?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Is that why you called?”

 

Monty bites his lip. This is already off to a bad start. “Uh, no, actually. Do you have time?”

 

“For what?”

 

“To talk?” And before he chickens out, he adds, “Like, now? Time now? I think we need to talk.”

 

Monty waits, heart in his throat, until he hears Miller exhale. “Yeah,” Miller says, and Monty tries not to wilt at how flat his voice sounds. “I have time.”

 

“Can I come over?” Monty asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay. Uh...well, see you soon, then.”

 

Miller hangs up without saying goodbye, and Monty feels the knot in his stomach grow tighter.

 

* * *

 

It’s freezing outside, but Monty circles Miller’s block three times before he works up the nerve to actually walk up to his apartment. When Miller opens the door, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, face blank, Monty wishes he’d made ten laps, or fifteen. He’s not ready for this, to sit with the visceral memory of what it felt like to kiss a line from Miller’s shoulder to his ear and not be able to do it again.

 

Miller stares at him with narrow, guarded eyes. His gaze flickers to Monty’s ears, and he frowns. “You’re cold,” he says.

 

Monty shrugs. “It’s winter.”

 

“Yeah.” He steps aside, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

 

Monty beelines for the couch, because that seems like neutral territory. Miller follows, his steps slow, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants.

 

Monty glances around. “No Bellamy?”

 

“Went back to Clarke’s,” Miller says, sitting, Monty notes, as far towards the other end of the couch as possible.

 

“Really?” Monty asks. “He was _just_ there.”

 

Miller looks at him, pointed. “Yes. He spent the night there. And you know, he didn’t mention anything about a Clarke having a computer problem.”

 

_Oh, fuck._

 

Monty squirms in his seat, like maybe if he looks pathetic enough Miller will take pity on him. But Miller’s eyes are still on him, steady.

 

“Yeah, I may have lied about the computer problem,” Monty admits.

 

Something sharp and raw flashes across Miller’s face, lightning fast, but then it’s gone. He looks down at his lap, breaking eye contact. Monty wonders, briefly, whether breaking into tears will make this situation better or worse (he hopes better, because it’s dangerously close to happening to matter what).

 

“It’s just,” he rushes on, “I mean, it wasn’t you. It was me. I’m a huge disaster. Like, seriously, the world’s biggest disaster. And I don’t know how to handle things appropriately, apparently, so when I get uncomfortable I sometimes just, like, bolt? It’s not...I’m sorry.”

 

Miller bites his lip, and Monty feels himself unspooling.

 

“And I’m sorry about, you know, the whole...I’m sorry, okay? Again, _disaster_ , and I wasn’t really thinking, I just kind of...I probably shouldn’t have shoved you up against a door and forced my tongue down your throat, right? Like, that’s generally not acceptable friend behavior.”

 

“Monty,” Miller growls, cutting him off. Monty watches as Miller takes a deep breath, his hands clenched tight against his sides. When he looks up, there’s a resignation in his eyes that makes Monty’s stomach flip.

 

“It’s fine, Monty,” Miller says. “This was my fault, not yours. You don’t need to feel bad.”

 

Monty blinks, because that makes no sense at all. “What? But I kissed _you_.”

 

“You were pretty drunk,” says Miller, with a half-hearted shrug. “I shouldn’t have gone along with it. I tried to ask, to make sure you really wanted it, but...but I knew you were drunk, and I still took your answer at face value. I’m sorry, I knew you would have answered differently sober, and I still…”

 

Miller trails off. Monty is flat out gaping at him now.

 

If he blinks back through the haze of alcohol and just wanting Miller to _get naked, already_ , he can see it: the warm look in Miller’s eyes as he cupped Monty’s cheeks, tracing his cheekbones with his thumbs. _Are you sure? Are you sure you want me?_ And Monty, giddy and overwhelmed desperate to feel more of Miller’s skin against his, had tugged him closer with a murmured _yes, please, yes, yes_ against his lips _._

 

“We don’t have to make it a big deal,” Miller is saying, over the thrum in Monty’s ears. “I know you’d rather be friends. If you want to pretend this never happened, that’s okay.”

 

“I don’t want to be friends,” Monty says, and Miller _flinches_ , which, oh, crap, that came out wrong.

 

“Wait, that’s not what I mean. You’re one of the best people I know, of _course_ I want to be friends. I just mean, like...if I had been sober…” He takes a deep breath. “If I had been sober, I would have had the same answer.”

 

Miller’s eyes widen, then quickly narrow again. “What does that mean?”

 

Monty sighs. Might as well get this over with. “If I had been sober, I would still have wanted to kiss you,” he says. “I know, because I’m nearly always sober, and I nearly always want to kiss you.”

 

Miller is staring at him, unmoving. Monty forges on.

 

“I’ve been trying not to get drunk around you because I was worried I’d, like, jump you. My self-control is not infinite. And what with you being all,” he gestures vaguely at Miller, “ _you_ , it’s hard to keep in check.”

 

It sure would be great if Miller would have a facial expression right about now.

 

“So,” Monty continues, feeling rather desperate, “don’t worry about taking advantage of me, or anything. I was a willing participant. More than willing. Eager.”

 

Monty bites his lip to shut himself up before he thoroughly embarasses himself. Across the couch, Miller is completely still, save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

 

“This morning,” Miller says, finally, his voice low. “You left. Why?”

 

“Oh,” Monty mumbles. “I, uh—”

 

“If you wanted this,” Miller continues, with palpable urgency, “then why did you make an excuse to leave?”

 

“Because I didn’t want to _just_ sleep with you,” Monty nearly shouts. Miller’s eyebrows shoot up, and somewhere, the not-terrified part of Monty’s mind thinks, _bingo, a facial expression_.

 

“I was hoping, if this ever happened, it would be different,” Monty says. “We would be together. Like long haul, committed together. And honestly, I would rather this not have happened like this, all...casual. I can handle being friends with you, but I can’t handle the weird, in between-ness of having slept together without being together. I’m a mess, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to wreck everything.”

 

Miller is looking at him with such intensity, Monty has to look away.

 

“In fact,” Monty says, miserably, “I’m pretty sure I already have. I’ll just…” He pushes himself off the couch and has made three steps towards the door when Miller grabs his wrist. When he turns, Miller is looking up at him, thunder in his eyes.

 

“You want to be with me?” he whispers.

 

Helpless, Monty nods.

 

And then Miller yanks him forward and, with a yelp, he finds himself straddling Miller’s lap. Miller’s hands dig into his sides, locking him in place, and Monty swears all the air leaves his body.

 

“I, what? What are you—”

 

“I thought you were just drunk,” Miller says, gripping Monty tighter. “And handsy. I thought when you woke up this morning and realized what happened, you regretted it.”

 

Monty opens his mouth to speak, but one of Miller’s hands tangles in his hair and he can’t quite find the words.

 

“It wasn’t casual for me, Monty,” Miller says, firm. “ _You_ are not casual for me.”

 

Monty’s head is swimming; he leans his palm against Miller’s chest to steady himself. “You...you want to be with me, too?”

 

Miller tugs Monty’s face down and kisses him, desperate and messy. Which is a pretty good answer, as far as things go, but Monty still wriggles back after a moment, breathless.

 

“That’s uh,” he gasps, as Miller moves to bite his earlobe, “ _yeah_ , but, just to be absolutely sure, I’m going to need you to actually say the words so I know I’m not crazy?”

 

“I want you,” Miller says, right against his ear, and Monty shivers. “Committed. Long haul. You.”

 

Monty laughs, wrapping his arms around Miller’s neck and pulling back to look at him. “Holy shit.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“For how long?”

 

Miller’s smiling, too, this soft, lazy smile. “I dunno. Ages.”

 

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

 

Miller raises an eyebrow.

 

“Oh, right. Pot, kettle, et cetera.” He leans forward so that his nose brushes against Miller’s. “So, you don’t mind if I jump you?”

 

“I really, really don’t.”

 

“Cool, because I’m going to be doing that a lot from now on.”

 

Monty has honestly never seen Miller smile like this. It does something wonderful to his stomach.

 

“Good,” Miller says, leaning up to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Raven sends out a text to the group chat.

 

**Raven  
** Monty may have won the pool, but Clarke and Bellamy got together after MY birthday so i think we know who the real winner is here

 

**Jasper  
** WAIT WHAT?  
WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN WHERE WAS I?

 

**Wells  
** Congrats, guys!!

 

**Octavia  
** <3 <3 <3

 

**Bellamy  
** i mean, i feel like Clarke and i are the winners in this situation?

 

**Raven  
** stop trying to steal my thunder, bellamy

 

**Clarke  
** yeah stop trying to steal raven’s thunder, bellamy

 

**Bellamy  
** oh god

 

**Raven  
** Monty, you were keeping track right? What do we owe you?

 

Monty laughs at the screen, head pillowed against Miller’s bare chest. God, Miller’s bed is comfy. Or maybe it’s just that Miller is comfy. Naked Miller is still a lot to handle, but Monty’s hoping with enough sex, it’ll get easier to him to deal with. He’s going to try, anyway. For science.

 

“What’s up?” Miller asks, a little drowsily. Monty tilts the phone up so that Miller can see it.

 

“I honestly don’t remember the terms of the pool,” Monty says. “Or really care. They got their shit together. Good for them.”

 

“Yeah,” Miller agrees, skimming his fingers down the length of Monty’s spine. “Good for them.”

 

“Hey,” Monty says, thinking of something, “question. Are we flaunting this yet?”

 

“Us?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, we haven’t yet,” Miller says. “But that’s probably just because we’ve had more important things to do today.”

 

“So, you don’t mind if I…” Monty trails off, waggling his phone.

 

Miller laughs. “Flaunt away.”

 

Monty grins, hoisting himself up on one elbow to snap a photo of his and Miller’s hands clasped together on top of Miller’s stomach. He quickly sends it to the group.

 

**Monty  
** Not sure. I’ll collect my winnings later. Kinda busy at the moment, tbh. Seriously, Raven: great party.

 

And then, just because he’s so goddamn happy, he adds:

 

**Monty  
** Nate cosigns.

 

**Raven  
**!!!!!!!!!

 

**Jasper  
** WHAT

 

**Raven  
** NATE OMG

 

**Clarke  
** <3 <3 <3

 

**Raven  
**!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

**Octavia  
** No way! Did we have a pool for this? I could have sworn we had a pool for this.

 

**Wells  
** YAY!

 

**Jasper  
** WAIT NO SERIOUSLY, WHAT?  
WHATTTTTTT?  
WHAT IS HAPPENING  
SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT IS HAPPENING

 

**Bellamy  
** about time

 

**Raven  
** THAT’S RIGHT, BITCHES  
RAVEN PARTIES ARE OFFICIALLY THE BEST PARTIES  
SUCK ITTTTTT LOSERS

**Author's Note:**

> I just can't get enough of these two idiots being the world's biggest idiots. (Also, apparently in my mind, idiots who sit in each other's laps? I don't even know.) Man, the alternate reality version of the 100 that fandom has concocted where everyone is alive and happy and at least a little gay is FUN.
> 
> I tumblr-stalk far more than I actually tumblr-post and my tastes are wildly eclectic, but you can find me [here](http://leralynne.tumblr.com) and I always like making new friends.


End file.
